Archive for the ‘ramp recordings’ Tag

The press release for the new Nochexxx 12” mentions that he has apparently ditched his computer in favour of an MPC and an old 8 track tape recorder, a bold move seems to have paid off, as the tunes are majorly fresh.

‘Charro’ is an unsettling mix of lo-fi computer game melodies and analogue basslines that shift and morph, whilst acid tinged pads tease themselves in and out of consciousness. ’Savage Herald’ is less obvious stylistically yet equally worth of attention. Nochexxx slows the tempo down and creates a vintage bleepy techno number that never quite settles right in the groove. Layered with flashes of musical colour and texture it’s a mile away from anything else I’ve listened to lately.

Released August 15th on RAMP. You can pick up a copy here
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Nochexxx Cambridge underground scene, one of the great talents of modern electronic music in the UK chicagóiak bass blends with the house and the Detroit electrójával. Due to the unique character immediately became kedvencünkké.

Nochexxx my olvasatomban the kind of writer, one who listens to music, and instantly the Better or all of them, or avoid them in the longer distance. First, the Wire was reading it, and even in spring, and then somehow forgot more to deal with it, so in time is the new Savage Herald / Charr’s bakelites, moreover, point to the Ramp issued which recently Ras G is returned with a new album (interesting anyway the relationship with this label, though probably for you is irrelevant: the early years I loved, and somehow turned away from him, and only recently discovered that in 2009, but especially in 2010, how much music was issued – astounding).

So here is the new number two, I prefer the Savage Herald comes in, because the abstract type of house, which is the square dance is abstract and may not necessarily be completely at rest at home listening to the people to feel included in the traditions of rotation. It is so damn serious about rock-solid bass and a slightly psychedelic prevaricate Nochexxx it sounds. And this is just about the first two minutes, I described the eight, while the remainder of the time, there are also drawing new and cool ideas, so the author does not confine itself to what is built at the very beginning. This is already the Charróra is true because, despite the openly Drexciya has resulted, it always changes the rhythm, and often goes techno electróból, now the end is a witty felpörgetése, no matter what a man. Made it a spectacular animated video clip:

Nochexxx – Charr

Otherwise, a half Chinese, half English Nochexxx face it, this time of writing but I’m the sixth man to lájkolta a Facebook page . If you can believe his words, it was influenced Ron Hardy , and this religion is good taste. Earlier – more precisely, from last year – is already two bakelites. The first Sensationallel got together, and the American rapper artist in a context in pushing the numbers first , like Theo Parrishexperiment with new directions, the other recording is good döngölős techno. Another tizenkétinchesidőtlenebb piece looks like an old samplerezhet numbers on it, while modern four dimensions fourth mask.The way of working and a sense of the sound is not far Actresstől and Zombytól. The analog synth and the old, thick sound lovers, I think you should listen to the music.

If Nick’s twelve seems to play around with ideas of spiritual / technological attenuation, signal drift, futures-past, faded love-affairs with / hatred for The Machine (whilst also suggesting possible strategies for boosting the signal and re-establishing contact – restarting old dialectics and making The Ghost solid once more – without resorting to full-on nostalgia or squirm-inducing Hauntophilia), then Dave’s twelve comes to the table (the dancefloor? the bed?) from the opposite side of the Man-Machine interface and reminds us of what it could once do when it was all domesticated and tamed back in the Futurity-embracing 80s – when the Fonkmaschine was still a benign and sexy idea and CCTV only existed in Cabs videos and we’d let the music grab us by the short n wiggly quarter-inch jacks and its guidance-system would make sure our pelvic phallodonics were nicely lubricated n ready for a bout of zero-G post-human luuuurve. Baby.

My, what a long sentence.

Nochexxx reccids’re are misshapen, hairy, leery, squirty, shiney, chunky, hunky, squeaky, drunken, smiley, lumpen, bumpy, (cont. page 94). He turns strut into a syncopated lager-stagger (and vice versa); his beats sound like bones swivellin’, drunken muscles flexing, like a mechanised digestive-system squirting a mix of acid n enzymes into a bolus of musical chyme; he inverts The Fonk, The Jack, The Schwing into something more… willfully slap-happy and haphazard – there’s a gleam in his eye; a glint of cheek; but he’s a romantic at heart, really…

On “Ritalin Love” he ramps up the rude noises, the parps and the phat, rumpy-pumping bass. The snares sound like a slapped arse. It sounds awesome on vinyl. I don’t envy any DJ who plays this record: they look up from their instamatic-mix-beat-counter, only to find that Essex has turned into West Hollywood. There’s a parade – an infinite limbo-line stretching through 4-dimensions (back and forward in Time simultaneously) – marching past the DJ-booth: Fonk-Freaks and She-Things with different-length’d legs, hands on each other’s hips, swaying like land-locked sailors limping on their pegs, as they stagger-dance past the DJ – an endless parade of physically-remixed extras from old colour-saturated Peech Boys promo-films waving neon-tubes, wearing lurid woolen leg-warmers over unshaven legs, a sackcloth-and-ashes dress from Patsy Climate tm, zircon-studded headbands, just beggin’ you to get it on, baby, one last time….

“There But For The Grace of God Go I…”

“And I knoooooow,” sing-says a sample-that-knows-it’s-a-sample (it’s a sad sample, see? Sad samples always know they’re just samples trapped on a hard-drive, on a reccid), “Whoooooo gets your love….” And it’s heartbreaking to hear it talk like that; it’s like an old flame asking for one last chance. A regret entombed in an 8-bit waveform.

In one way, Dave’s and Nick’s records are strangely similar in that they both allow the Past to access the Present; they let the Dead draw breath again and look at the world with fresh, newly-grown eyes.

Both these records are the musical equivalent of breaking The Fourth Wall. Unlike – and let’s try and be truthful about this rather than unnecessarily cruel – so many contemporary artists who produce work that’s merely a form of sonic re-enactment; puppeteers who just put old tropes through their paces again and pass xeroxes off as Spontaneous Generation or Oujia-Board conjuring – but here, here I get a sense of Music Wanting To Be heard Again, of Musician-Producer-as-Conduit, of voices-from-the-other-side willing themselves back to life.

Life loves Life. The universe rebuilds itself from peco-second to peco-second; newness springs constantly from collapse, from Quantum Uncertainty, from Death. The Past inhabits us; our nervous-systems are like antennae. The Dead speak to us; they force our hand, force us to make them new again. Old forms and cultural themes perpetually rise within us like dormant viruses.

I don’t care it you don’t get that, or don’t hear what I’m hearing. It’s not important.

I’m not a critic, just a listener.

I believe in these things so that you don’t have to.

It’s my right to be wrong.

But this…this is on white vinyl, sucker.

And it’s nice to see somebody playing someone actually playing Dave’s music in a context other than, you know, in my room or on Dave’s teal speakers or whatever.